


This Will Be

by leyley09



Category: Sherlock (TV), While You Were Sleeping (1995)
Genre: Character in a coma, Everyone will be fine at the end, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson saves the stranger he's been crushing on from being crushed by a speeding van, he's not expecting to end up engaged to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Twenty-Ninth of January

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly the fault of CeruleanDarkangelis for saying "Dude, you totally should" when I said "Someone should write a While You Were Sleeping AU/fusion for this fandom". She's also been an excellent beta and made some very helpful suggestions; thank you, love!
> 
> This is inspired by but doesn't directly follow the plot of the movie, so if you haven't seen it, you should still be able to enjoy this fic (I hope). However, if you haven't seen the movie, your life is a slightly sadder place than it could be; you should get right on that. I'll wait.
> 
> Multiple chapters have already been written (I'm about halfway done), but I'm hoping the pressure of not wanting to leave it a WIP will keep me from procrastinating the rest. The more people who poke me about that, the better.

On the 29th of January, two unusual things happened to John Watson. First, his next-door neighbors didn’t have their regularly scheduled morning fight to awaken him. While the lack of screaming from the other side of his bedroom wall was a relief in one sense, the absence was entirely responsible for John sleeping through his (much quieter) alarm and rushing out of his flat 30 minutes later than normal. This, in turn, directly influenced the second unusual thing: due to a much later train, John was rushing along the sidewalk towards the bookshop at 8:30 when an unbalanced lorry lost its load of industrial ceramic piping, knocking several people over, including one man who was knocked head first into the street in front of a large, speeding delivery van.

 

Let’s pause here for a little background information. John Watson, lately of Queensbury in the northwest suburbs of London, veteran of Her Majesty’s armed forces, spends most of his days behind the counter of an independent bookstore, bored out of his bloody mind. The shop gets just enough traffic to justify the salaries of its few employees, but not enough traffic to keep any of them busy for very long. On a normal day, the most interesting thing that happens occurs far too early in the morning to be any use keeping John occupied.

 

At 8:30 each morning, precisely, a staggeringly well-groomed man would leave the ritzy residential building across the street and step smoothly into the shiny black car that always pulled up to the curb at exactly 8:29. John was accustomed to watching this daily activity from behind the shop counter - separated by wide sidewalks, a busy street, a plate glass window, and several feet of retail space - which he felt made his blatant ogling a little less creepy. This man was tall and slim, with striking patrician features. He was always impeccably dressed and never seemed to forget his umbrella. He would slip gracefully into the backseat of the car, and John would spend the rest of the day wondering who this man was, where he was going, and how his silk ties would feel wrapped around John’s wrists (he gets REALLY bored, alright?!).

 

Over the last 8 months, John has seen this morning ritual almost every Monday through Saturday. He has had plenty of time to develop a detailed future with Sexy Suit Man (Bill’s terrible nickname has managed to stick) including a rom-com worthy first meeting, romantic trips abroad, a stylish house in a fashionable neighbourhood, 2 adopted children (a boy and a girl), 1 small hypoallergenic dog, three goldfish, and a lizard. The horrible accident happening in front of him is going to ruin his future if that delivery van drives over his future husband.

  
John spent two tours of duty in Afghanistan, but he’s gotten out of the habit of using his quick reflexes. He’s normally stiffer and his movements more stilted than they were in a warzone. Somehow, this doesn’t matter on this particular Tuesday; John doesn’t have time for stiff muscles or creaky joints. He’s not sure how it happens, but he finds himself sprawled across the (probable) love of his life with the bumper of a Ford Transit brushing the back of his coat. In the frozen week-long moment of silence that follows, John makes eye contact with his potential life partner for the very first time, just before those beautiful blue eyes roll up into his head as he lapses into unconsciousness.


	2. A Hospital Is No Place To Be Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible misunderstanding occurs, and John Watson is too polite for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Samuel Goldwyn and has practically nothing to do with the content of the chapter. I just like it.
> 
> Chapter three will be slower in coming, as Sherlock's deductions are a lot harder than Mofftiss make them look.

At several points during the next few weeks, John will wonder to himself if it was a curse or a blessing that brought both his ambulance and Sexy Suit Man’s ambulance to the same hospital. Grateful to have been declared unscathed by the time he reached the A&E department at St. Bart’s, John was able to evade the staff and search out the object of his obsession. He finds SSM being moved further into the hospital and shamelessly eavesdrops on the nurses surrounding the gurney. He’s had enough exposure to army medics to understand that SSM’s injuries aren’t believed to be life-threatening, but the head injury sustained during contact with the tarmac has led the medical staff to sedate him as a precaution.

“He’s got wake up,” John murmurs. “I’m going to marry him; he’s got to wake up.”

The loud gasp from behind him is startling. He jerks around to see a young nurse, standing much closer than he had thought, with a hand clapped over her mouth.

“Does the doctor know you’re his fiancé?”

“Wait, what?” John doesn’t ever claim to be a great conversationalist, but he genuinely has no idea what this woman is talking about.

“If you’re his fiancé, I can get you in to see him, at least once the doctor leaves.” This nurse, Molly according to her name tag, is talking to him like he’s in shock - or a toddler. She’s also dragging him along behind her, following the gurney with his alleged fiancé to the elevators. She pulls him with her, ignoring his (admittedly) incoherent protests.  

“It’s probably just a concussion. Well, I say ‘just’, there’s nothing ‘just’ about a concussion. But it’s one of the less serious options, so we’ll hope for the best, right? Essentially, your fiance’s brain just got a bit sloshed around, so there’s some bruising and swelling, as you’d expect. But he doesn’t look the sort to have these issues often, so it should be fairly straightforward. I wouldn’t worry about him being unconscious, they do that a lot for cases like this because it’s easier to heal when you’re sleeping and most people just can’t be still enough on their own. I would be quite stunned if he’s not walking out of here in just a couple of days. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Moments later, John finds himself standing next to the hospital bed of an unconscious man he’s never actually met with no idea what to do or say. He opens and shuts his mouth several times, because he’s clearly meant to be talking but he is drawing an absolute blank.  Aside from the repetitive beeping of the heart monitor and the sounds filtering in from the hallway, the sparsely decorated room is silent. There’s no window, so John can’t even determine what time of day it is. The walls are empty of anything but medical paraphernalia; the lone chair is institutional and looks hugely uncomfortable. Nothing in this room suggests an appropriate topic of conversation.  Before he can come up with anything besides “um”, the room is invaded by a group of people who are talking more than enough for the entire floor. John takes the opportunity to slide closer and closer to the door as the group converges on the bed. There’s a lot of “oh, my precious boy”, and “oh god, Mike”, and “where is the doctor” going on as John reaches the doorway. He’s just about to clear the door completely when a voice breaks through the clamor: “Who are you?”

Before John can offer a perfectly plausible “So sorry, wrong room” or a more awkward (and more likely) “um, nobody”, the endlessly helpful Molly pipes up from behind him (that woman needs bells or something) “He’s Mr. Holmes’s fiancé”. The room drops into silence with such speed that John wonders if he’s suddenly gone deaf.

“Excuse me?” It’s hard to describe the tone in which this question was asked. John tries later, but definitely fails to capture the precise level of imperiousness. Queen Victoria’s legendary “we are not amused” may have been said in a warmer tone. The woman asking the question - presumably Mr. Holmes’s mother - could easily fill such a role if required. John can easily see where the unconscious man in the room got his gracefulness and sense of style. Standing next to her is a dashing older gentleman, who currently looks like he just heard the best joke of all time but can’t laugh out loud in this environment. A younger woman, roughly John’s own age, is standing just behind them; she shares enough physical characteristics to be their daughter and probable sister to - well, he can’t call him Sexy Suit Man anymore, that would be weird. Finally, in the far corner of the room is another man, maybe a bit older than John with greying hair, who was glued to his mobile until the untimely announcement. Everyone is now staring at John, waiting for an answer. Fortunately for John, Molly hasn’t had time to leave the room and is still happy to speak on his behalf. “Yes, he’s the one who saved Mr. Holmes from being crushed by a van during the accident.”

The mood in the room changes like a switch has been flipped. John feels he is being hugged by more people than he knew ten minutes ago. There is a lot of crying and back slapping, and John finds himself being introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, their daughter Eleanor, and family friend, Greg. In the confusion, John gets a good look at the chart at the end of the bed; who in the bloody hell names their son Mycroft? John manages to get his own name out, but is interrupted from correcting their assumption by a doctor with an update on Mycroft’s condition.

John can’t possibly leave; he’s surrounded by Holmeses now. He listens to the doctor’s opinion that they should know more in a few days, nodding along with everyone else like he’s going to be around to see the outcome. When the doctor finishes, he’s wrapped up into the group of Holmeses - who never seem to stop talking - and shuffled along through the corridors, out of the hospital, and up the street into a pub for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John hasn’t eaten a meal with this many people since he left Afghanistan. It’s like he’s forgotten how to talk to more than one person at a time; he can’t keep up with the conversation flowing around the table. He focuses his attention on Greg, who’s sitting next to him. He learns that Greg is a Detective Inspector in the homicide division at NSY and has known Mycroft for many years. Mycroft, it turns out, does something important for the government, but Greg assumes John already knows about this (“quite logically”, John’s brain supplies) and doesn’t go into any detail. He describes the first time they met, in some sort of procedural meeting for a major public event, back when Greg was just a rookie and “Mike” (as Greg keeps calling him) was still taking orders instead of giving them. Most of Greg’s stories, though, involve someone named Sherlock, that John is clearly supposed to know already (who named these people, for heaven’s sake?), and who is either some kind of genius or lunatic, depending on the story. He works with Greg in some fashion, but must also have some connection to the Holmeses because Mycroft “worries” about him.

Greg is eventually distracted by his phone, and John’s attention turns to Eleanor, across the table. She’s lovely, a younger version of her mother, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Eleanor is younger than Mycroft, and she is still working on her doctorate from the London School of Economics. She laughs more than John would have expected from an economist. Her stories of Mycroft are all of disapproving phone calls after some of her more exciting uni adventures, though all of them seem to end with “but of course that’s nothing compared to what Sherlock’s gotten up to.”  

On his other side, Mr. Holmes is a peaceful oasis in the noise of the restaurant. He adds very little to the conversation, but his mood is so calm that John finds himself relaxing. Mrs. Holmes jumps into everyone’s conversations as she feels her opinion is needed. She appears very stern at first, but as the evening wears on, she becomes more gregarious. He suspects she’s a little hurt, but not surprised, that Mycroft would get engaged without sharing the information with her - “He’s always been one to keep secrets, but this is not the same thing as the address to his office.”

John tries to imply that it was very recent without outright lies; he feels bad enough as it is. “I’m sure he meant to tell you, you know how busy he gets.” He’s not sure if his effort succeeds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John leaves them after dinner feeling rather like he’d been run over by the van after all. He’s exhausted and totally overwhelmed. As the family piles into a cab, John realises that he’s missing his scarf. The last place he had it was up in Mycroft’s hospital room, so he trudges back down the street to the hospital. The nurse at the floor desk doesn’t have his scarf, but she waves him towards Mycroft’s room; news must travel fast in the ICU.

John steps through the door into the dim room. It’s quiet and strangely peaceful, with only the occasional beep of the monitors to break the silence. John’s scarf is folded on the seat of the chair to the left the bed.

“I don’t really know how this happened,” John whispers to the man in the hospital bed. “This is crazy, just crazy, and I don’t know how to tell them they’re wrong. They were all so excited and happy for us, and it’s nearly Valentine’s Day. Their holiday will be bad enough if you’re still here; I don’t want to make that worse.” He sighs deeply. “And Mycroft, they’re just, they’re so nice. It’s been a long time since I had people who actually saw me, who were happier because I was around. I know it’s wrong to keep lying to them about this engagement, but how am I supposed to give that up?”

John sinks into the chair and rests his face in his hands. He doesn’t see Greg move silently away from the door.

 

 


	3. At First Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
> 
> And then sometimes they open their mouth and ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the people who have left lovely comments and kudos on the first couple chapters. You have no idea how beautiful that is. And even more thanks for the suggestions; I'm not making any promises, but your suggestions have been noted and will absolutely be considered as I go. :D
> 
> Lastly, massive thanks to Ariane Devere for her transcripts which have made me look a lot better in this chapter than I would have otherwise.

The bookstore was abuzz with discussions of the accident and aftermath the next morning. It was precisely 47 minutes into John’s shift before anyone asked him directly about his experience. He was honestly surprised it took that long. He didn’t mean to tell either Mike, his boss, or Bill, the other day shift clerk, about his experience with the Holmes family, but both of them had seen him throw himself into the street. They demanded to know if the man from across the street was alright, and before he realised it, John was spilling the whole story.

Bill, as expected, thought the whole thing was hilarious, and went off to unpack boxes still giggling. Mike, on the other hand, had known John before his parents died, before his sister drifted away, before he came home from foreign deserts wounded in more ways than one. Mike laid a heavy hand on his shoulder for a long moment before wandering back into the office, leaving John to man the counter in silence.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Shortly after midday, the tedium is broken by the overly cheerful bells attached to the shop door. John rounds the corner from the self-help aisle into the middle of the shop.

“Good afternoon, can I help you find anyth----“

John’s not an eloquent man; he’ll be the first to admit it. However, he is usually articulate enough to speak in full sentences and to use words correctly. John is also not a particularly shy man. He is comfortable talking to strangers of all types and descriptions – an absolute necessity when you work in retail. He has never before found himself in the position of being physically unable to complete a sentence simply because he was looking at an exceptionally attractive human being.

But this one, this particular human being, he is something else. John wishes someone else was in the room so he could verify that he’s not hallucinating this creature. He’s exactly the kind of tall John likes, with exactly the kind of curly/wavy hair through which John adores running his fingers and exactly the kind of skin on which John likes to leave faint teeth marks. He’s too gorgeous to be real, and this really, _really_ cannot be happening to John.

The man is shaking water droplets off of his long overcoat and glancing around the shop while John is having his temporary meltdown. When he finally spots John standing awkwardly between displays of Nicholas Sparks’ _The Wedding_ and _The Real Dope on Dealing with an Addict_ , he freezes in place. He looks as stunned as John feels. One small portion of his brain which is still functioning is shouting about how there’s supposed to be an epic soundtrack to moments like this; another portion points out that John is being ridiculously overdramatic.

The fairy tale moment is not so much brought to a natural end as it is snapped in half and trod upon as the stranger in the shop straightens purposefully and stalks aggressively towards him.

“John Watson.” It’s not a question; it’s an accusation. John’s name was said with less disdain by sergeants at basic training.

“Y-yes?” _Well, that was pathetic_ , John thinks to himself. _Your name isn’t up for debate, man_.

“The John Watson who so ‘heroically’ threw himself in front of a speeding truck yesterday.” The sarcastic quotes around “heroically” are practically visible from space. For some reason, John finds that extremely irritating. The earlier moment gives up its last laboured breath with an alarming death rattle.

“I think you’ll find it was a van, mate,” John snaps, narrowing his eyes and refusing to give ground to the man shoving into his personal space, even if he does have to tip his head back to maintain eye contact. “What about it?”

Now, this moment, it stretches into awkwardness as this absolute arse looms over John like a bloody great emu. His eyes haven’t stopped moving, skipping and darting over and around John in no discernable pattern. John is working very hard to not be distracted by those eyes. They are a fascinating mix of color up close, but _now is really not the time_ , he reminds himself.

It feels like weeks have passed before the man steps back, away from John. He’s frowning, no, that’s really more of a scowl. John’s just happy to be able to breathe again. If only the air around him didn’t smell so _amazing_.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Where were you deployed? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. But how...?”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. Posture plus suntan, most likely deployed military. Majority of our deployed troops are in one of two places: Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John inhales sharply, feeling a bit stunned. “That” – he pauses for another breath – “was amazing.”

“Do you think so?” He sounds just as stunned as John is.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” John has moved from stunned to absolutely astonished. He’s never heard, seen, or felt anything like that, well, ever.

“That’s not what people normally say.” This tone is…cautiously hopeful, John thinks.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John can’t hold back his giggle now. The dry tone is so matter of fact, and John can easily imagine other people taking offense to the flood of facts that had been thrown at him a moment ago.

“So you know who I am. Do I get to know who you are?” John asks, still trying to curtail his giggles.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

So this is the mysterious Sherlock the Holmes family couldn’t stop talking about last night. There’s not as much resemblance between Sherlock and Mycroft as John might have expected, but there’s a definite resemblance to Eleanor, now that John knows to look for it.

“And you’re Mycroft’s secret fiancé that he has been trying to hide from Mummy. I have to admit, I was expecting someone very different from you, John Watson.”

_Secret fiancé? Wait, what?_

 

 


	4. Every Step You Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever get that tingly feeling that you're being watched? John Watson has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Ceruleandarkangelis for reading this over for me. If there are still mistakes, it's because I didn't want to wait for her to check it one last time. :)
> 
> Chapter title from "Every Breath You Take" by The Police, because, lbh, it's the best stalker song out there.

John’s week does not improve from there. He develops a creepy “being watched” sensation that won’t go away no matter how many extra anti-anxiety pills he swallows, and John eventually drags himself to his therapist’s office two days later (and three days early) out of sheer desperation.

“I don’t understand why this is happening. I was doing really well, and I haven’t had a flare up like this in months.”

“Has anything out of the ordinary happened recently, John?”

“Well, um, yes. I saw this guy get knocked into the street and almost run over by a van, and I sort of jumped in the way. The van didn’t hit us or anything, but he did land kind of rough, and he’s in a coma now. And, um, well, the thing is” – _god, this is awkward_ – “his family might be under the impression that we’re engaged to be married.”

In the ensuing silence, John can actually hear the receptionist in the waiting room filing her nails.

“John”, Dr. Thompson says, “how many of those pills have you taken?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John leaves Dr. Thompson’s office with a prescription for a different kind of anti-anxiety medication and strict instructions on how to properly dispose of the ones he already has.

He’s still fighting the feeling that every other person on this street is watching him. There are just too many people looking away just as he glances in their direction, too many gazes following him when he peers into shop window reflections, too many people not turning pages in their newspapers on the tube.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The only place John hadn’t felt he was being watched is Mycroft’s hospital room. He had made brief appearances in the last couple of days, hoping to avoid the crush of the Holmes family by not staying very long either time; so far he’d been successful.

Today, though, John doesn’t care who he runs into. He would really rather lie to the entire Holmes family than spend one more minute with this lingering feeling of paranoia.

He lucks out though; only Greg is sitting in the room alongside Mycroft’s bed. Greg looks up from his newspaper and smiles broadly at John.

“John, hi. Was just wondering if I was going to catch you here today.”

“Greg. Criminal classes taking a day off?”

“We should be so lucky,” Greg laughs. “Actually, John, I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk to you about something.”

_This can’t be good._ “Yeah, what’s that?”

Greg gets up from his chair and brushes by John to close the door. The silence of the room is only broken by the faint beeps and whirs of the various machines attached to Mycroft. Greg returns to his chair, and waves John towards the chair that has appeared on the other side of the bed since John’s last visit.

“After we all had dinner the other night, I had to come back up here, and I, uh, I overheard you talking to Myc.”

_Shit._

“I haven’t said anything, because I’m too old to be ratting people out like that. But you need to tell the Holmeses the truth, John. They’re nice people; they’ll understand that it was a mistake. You’ll probably get a lot of credit for not wanting to disappoint them.”

“I know, Greg. I feel terrible about lying, and I will. I’ll tell them the truth, at the next appropriate moment.”

“Good.”

“Can I ask you something - as a police officer?”

“Sure, John. What’s going on?”

“How can you tell if you’re being tailed?”

John feels that this is a valid question. He doesn’t appreciate Greg’s cackling.

“Greg, I’m serious. I feel like I’m going nuts, but I’m already too nuts to deal with this. My therapist is starting to get worried.”

Greg visibly pulls himself together. “I’m sorry, John, it’s just, well, you probably are being tailed.”

“ **WHAT**.” It’s not a question. John is too pissed for questions.

“You remember I told you about working with Myc’s brother, Sherlock? Well, one of his little tricks is using homeless people as a surveillance network. I’m pretty sure you are being observed any time you’re out in public.”

“That’s ridiculous, Greg. I _met_ Sherlock the day after the accident. He came into the shop where I work and tried to interrogate me, but he was pleasant enough by the time he left.”

“John, Sherlock’s suspicious as hell. He might believe that you’re engaged to Myc; he’s not great at reading relationships. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be looking for something to use against you if you turn out to be a problem for his family.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing really, except tell them the truth. Sherlock will probably call off the surveillance once you’re no longer in the picture.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that John knows what to look for, it’s easier to see the eyes following him from alleyways and public benches. Sherlock’s surveillance network appears to include all sorts of “street” people - newspaper stand vendors, disgruntled looking teenagers loitering around the tube station. When he changes lines at the Baker Street station, it feels like everyone is watching him. The feeling tapers off as he gets closer to his own stop; by the time he’s left the station at Queensbury and caught his bus towards home, it’s practically disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, John wakes in a better mood than he has in ages. Knowing he’s not actually as crazy as he thought puts a spring in his step. As he waits for his train, he comes to a conclusion. If Sherlock is as suspicious as Greg said, then any behavior that’s out of John’s usual routine is going to be a big, huge red flag. Sherlock’s had two days to figure out John’s ‘usual routine’ (though John suspects he hasn’t needed all of it). Today, however, is the perfect time to start waving flags.

So instead of changing lines at the Baker Street station, as he normally would, he switches to a different line altogether. He changes again at Oxford Circus. Then, to really make his own life more difficult, he gets a bus outside the Chancery Lane station that will, eventually, take him to Clerkenwell Road.  It makes him much later to work than he would usually be. Fortunately, Mike’s been very understanding post-accident, and John is sadly not above taking advantage of that today.

John works his Saturday shift as usual; there’s a little more traffic in the store because it’s a weekend, but they are far from swamped. After his shift, however, he does a quick search on Mike’s computer for public spaces, and decides to wander up towards City University. The Islington Museum looks like precisely the kind of place one would only visit for ‘nefarious’ purposes of some kind.

As John exits the shop and turns in the opposite direction of his usual route to the station, he sees a young man across the street scramble to follow him. Excellent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Islington Museum isn’t much to speak of. The space on the lower level under the Finsbury Library isn’t big enough to lose a follower, so it’s not hard to spot the teenager doing a shit job of not looking like he’s watching John. He wanders through a couple of parks, enjoying a rare sunny afternoon, making his way slowly towards Farringdon Station. He hopes the kid following him is enjoying his pointless meanders. It’s not as easy to look suspicious as John had thought it would be.

He’s starting to wear himself out by the time he reaches Farringdon, so he hops on the next train that will take him closer to home. Many minutes later, just as the train is pulling away from the Euston Square station, someone runs rather aggressively into John’s back. John’s frustrated already; he’s tired, and he’s probably wasted half his afternoon on a joke that no one will appreciate. He twists sharply around to snap at the idiot who doesn’t know how to stand properly in a moving train.

It’s Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes, who looks far less surprised to see him than he should, if this were an accident. He’s slightly out of breath, lightly flushed, and a bit windblown.

_He looks delicious._ John shakes his head quickly. _Stop that._

“John Watson, what a surprise running into you here!”

“Really? You mean all those people who have been watching me all day weren’t keeping you updated on my whereabouts?”

Astonished, bewildered, dumbfounded; all excellent words John could use to describe Sherlock’s expression if he weren’t too busy laughing.

“Just a tip, you might want to use people who have been trained in surveillance if you’re going to be stalking someone who’s had some counter-surveillance training and who’s already suffering from minor paranoia due to PTSD.”

“Not good?” Sherlock actually looks like he doesn’t know the answer to that.

“Bit not good, yeah.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says seriously, pausing as if he’s actually filing that observation away somewhere in his mind.

The train slows to a stop at the Great Portland Street station. The crowd pushes and pulls at them. The draft of cooler air passing through the open doors brings in the smells of too many people, wearing too many different perfumes and carrying too many different foods. Sherlock flinches a bit, more of a twitch really, when it hits them.

The doors close, and the train shifts into motion, pushing John back into Sherlock momentarily. They both shift apart as soon as momentum allows. John wants to ask about that flinch, but maybe a crowded train isn’t really the place for that. He debates any number of other topics, but disregards all of them. Sherlock doesn’t seem the sort to converse mindlessly about the weather, so John can’t fall back on that classic. He can’t ask about Mycroft; he should already know how Mycroft is. Just as John decides that it would be safe enough to enquire about Eleanor, the train begins to slow for the Baker Street Station.

Both John and Sherlock move towards the exit. John doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; Baker Street is a major interchange. As they reach the top of the escalator, John turns to head towards his next train. Sherlock catches him by the elbow.

“This is my stop. I live just up the street, so you could, if you aren’t in a hurry, you could come with me? Dinner seems like the least I can do after having you followed so obviously all day.” Sherlock’s shuffling sort of awkwardly, fidgeting just a little like he’s nervous. _Oh my god, he’s actually nervous._

John grins. “Yeah, that would be great.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock beams. “Follow me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't gone to the trouble of checking my profile page, you can also find me @ leyley09.tumblr.com or @leyley09 on Twitter. :D


	5. Find Me a Man Who's Interesting Enough to Have Dinner With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits 221B for the first time, meets Mrs Hudson, and finds himself in an emotional predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has read this since the last update and especially to those of you who commented. I'm sorry I'm slow, but, you know, life. *Shrugs* What can you do? Hopefully this will tide you over while I work on the next bit. :D
> 
> A big thank you to CeruleanDarkangelis for the speedy beta!
> 
> Chunks of the dialogue in this chapter has been taken from Ariane Devere's amazing transcript of the unaired pilot (because lbh, that was way more like a rom-com than ASIP).
> 
> Chapter title from a quote by Lauren Bacall.

Sherlock lives only a few minutes from the station, so the silence doesn’t have time to be awkward before they’re arriving. The building looks old but well-cared for, and the light from the windows sends a welcoming glow out into the street.

Sherlock unlocks the door and gestures for John to precede him into the foyer.

“Sherlock, love, is that you?” An older woman leans out into the hall from a door past the stairs. Her welcoming look slides into an expression of shock when she spots John standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. She moves, surprisingly quickly, out into the foyer.

“Sherlock, dear, _who_ is _this_?” Her delight shines from her face and echoes in her voice.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson, _Mycroft’s fiance_.” Sherlock intones, emphasis heavy on the final words. “John, this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady.”

Her disappointment is visible to people in other time zones, but she’s still pleasant when she continues.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, John. Maybe you can talk Mycroft into being a little less nosy. It’s not that I mind having company for tea, it’s just that his inquisition is never subtle and I’m running out of ridiculous nonsense to feed him about Sherlock.”

John can’t help his giggle. The idea of this sweet old lady sitting down to tea with Mycroft and making up stories about Sherlock is just too funny.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I keep telling her she doesn’t have to do that; it just encourages him to keep coming back.” He puts a hand to John’s back, nudging him lightly towards the stairs. “We’re going to get dinner once I change, Mrs. Hudson. Can we bring you anything?”

“No, dear, but thank you for asking. You’re such a sweet boy.” She pats his cheek, even as he tries to dodge her. She waves at John before closing her door.

“I know this place just around the corner,” Sherlock says as they climb the stairs. “Italian. Food’s good, and there’s always a table open for me.”

He steps past John to open the door off the landing, and John… John is falling in love with a flat. He didn’t think that was even possible. The furniture is mismatched and covered with a slew of papers and assorted paraphernalia that must be connected to Sherlock’s investigations. He can barely see the wallpaper underneath a spread of photos and printouts all connected with string and sticky notes. There’s a fire burning in the grate. It feels cozy and homelike and a million times more welcoming than John’s colorless residence.

“I’ll be just a minute,” Sherlock says, already heading back through the flat, presumably to his bedroom.

John settles into an armchair in front of the fireplace, making no effort to hide his perusal of the rooms. He wants to know about every object on the shelves, the history of the skull on the mantle, the story behind the knife stuck into the wood. He twists to see into the kitchen. The table and countertops are covered with lab equipment and precarious stacks of Petri dishes and microscope slides.

His inspection is interrupted by Sherlock entering from the hallway. He’s wearing the same ridiculous coat and scarf; if he’s changed anything, John can’t tell what it is, since he doesn’t know what Sherlock had on before. Sherlock smiles so faintly it’s barely there when his eyes land on John. “Dinner?”

“Starving.”

He follows Sherlock back out the door, down the stairs, and onto the street. Sherlock directs him off down the sidewalk to the right, back towards the station.

“So you work with the police?”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“And you do that observation...thing...for them? Whenever they need help?”

“It’s not just ‘observation’, and no, not ‘whenever’ they need it. It would be a waste of my time to help them when they can’t figure out who’s responsible for a rash of petty vandalism. I only take cases that require actual brainwork.”

“Who decides which cases require brainwork?”

“I do.”

“Obviously.” John tries to keep a straight face, looking ahead of them as they walk, but he can just see Sherlock frowning out of the corner of his eye. He makes it maybe three more steps before he starts to giggle. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s definitely smiling now.

“Okay then, explain your ‘not just observation’ thing to me. How does it work?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock’s lecture on the science of deduction lasts them the rest of the way to the restaurant. The place looks a bit sketchy, but Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to push his way through the door.

“Sherlock!” A burly man at the back of the restaurant shouts and waves. He gestures broadly towards a table just in front of the window. They’re just sitting down when he reaches them.

“Sherlock, always so good to see you! Anything you want, on the house, you and your date.”

“I’m not his date.” John feels obligated to mention. No one pays him any attention.

“John, this is Angelo. He owns this restaurant.”

Angelo leans in towards John. “This man got me off a murder charge.”

“Three years ago I successfully proved to Inspector Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, car-jacking.”

Angelo wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “He cleared my name.”

“I cleared it a bit.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at John.

John is charmed despite himself. All the Holmes family stories about Sherlock the other night had made him sound so aloof and unapproachable, worried only about science and logic. The Sherlock John had seen this evening is certainly worried about science and logic, but is also worried about if Mrs. Hudson is eating and if this Angelo was being falsely accused. He stalks people who might be a danger to his family, and he’s taken aback by genuine compliments. Sherlock is so much more complex than John would have imagined, and John is absolutely fascinated.

“Anything on the menu, I cook it for you myself.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” John smiles. “Whatever the special is will be fine, I’m sure.”

Angelo turns to Sherlock. “And you, Sherlock, are you eating today?”

_Today?_

“Yes, whatever John’s having is fine.”

Angelo bustles away from the table as John turns his gaze on Sherlock.

“Tell me about Angelo’s case?”

“Lestrade came to me on a Thursday morning…..”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John can’t remember the last time he’s had so much fun with another person. Sherlock’s stories are a fascinating window into the criminal shenanigans of London. After the first few, Sherlock had gotten less technical and more descriptive, and he’s an extremely gifted mimic. The other patrons of Angelo’s restaurant sent a number of irritated glances in their direction as John’s giggles got louder.

The conversation moved on, eventually, to how John got into the army.

“There just wasn’t any reason to stay, you know? My parents were gone, my sister hadn’t talked to me in months, so I figured I might as well.”

“I’m not certain ‘might as well’ is the excuse most people would use.”

“I guess I just couldn’t think of any reason not to go, and I like helping people. I really thought I’d be doing more of that than walking around trying not to get shot, but --”

“But you weren’t particularly good at that part, were you?”

John’s so shocked he actually snorts water out of his nose. When he looks up at Sherlock, still holding a napkin to his face, Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his face is flushed. He looks appalled at himself.

John bursts out laughing. Everyone left in the restaurant looks over sharply. John’s laughing so hard he’s having trouble breathing. If he weren’t so amused, it would be terribly embarrassing.

“No, I guess not,” he manages to reply between giggles. He really can’t stop laughing now, though he’s trying. Even Sherlock is affected; his much deeper chuckles layer under John’s giggles like a cello under a violin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They close down the restaurant. Angelo is very apologetic, but after the second time the busboy mops the floor next to their table, they’ve kept the staff long enough.

Sherlock walks him back to the train station just in time to catch the last train. There isn’t time to linger, though John is tempted. But he can’t afford to cab back to his flat, not all the way from here. He takes the escalator down to his train in a a bit of a daze.

He’s smiling like an idiot in the reflection in the train window. He can’t believe the day he’s had. Aside from the typical Saturday shift, this is the most fun he’s had in ages. The adrenaline rush of trying to lose his stalkers, the surprise of seeing Sherlock’s home, the amusement of dinner - John can’t remember the last time he felt this alive. That was, without question, the best first date he’s ever had.

_Well, shit_.

For one, that wasn’t a date; that was Sherlock feeling bad about having him followed. Second - and possibly most important - Sherlock thinks John is marrying his brother. So do his parents, his sister, and the entire staff of the St. Bart’s intensive care unit.

It’s just John’s luck that he would finally meet someone amazing and he’s fucked himself over in advance. He spends the rest of his train journey with his face in his hands.


	6. Life Is Full of Rude Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is awake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience waiting for this - I hope it's worth the wait. We're getting near to the end here, just a couple more chapters I believe.
> 
> As always, many thanks to CeruleanDarkangelis and D for helping me wrangle my verb tenses and my tendency to use the same words to excess!
> 
> *Edit* - Thank you EllieSaxon for correcting a mistake that made it all the way to posting! :D At least future readers won't think I'm completely ignorant!

John shuffles slowly up the sidewalk towards home. He’s feeling listless and a little defeated, and he’s got no one to blame for this but himself. He lets himself into the building and nearly trips up the stairs when someone grabs his arm. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Philip, you can’t just grab people.”

“Sorry, John, it’s just, I think I found another clue today, you’ve got to come look.” John’s downstairs neighbor is, to put it nicely, a little crazy. He works, at least nominally, in some sort of administrative function for Scotland Yard or something like that. Unfortunately for all the neighbors, he spends the rest of his time combing through historical records looking for proof that Doctor Who is real. Some days, it’s entertaining, and it’s nice that he’s not a crazy cat person or making meth or something destructive. But John just does not have the energy to deal with crazy right now.

“Philip, I’m sorry, I would, but I have had a ridiculous day. I’m absolutely exhausted. Can I come by tomorrow or, or some day next week?”

Philip deflates, and John feels like crap. “Sure, John, whenever. I’ve got a bunch of records from Wales to go through tomorrow, so I’ll be home all day.”

John pats him on the shoulder before turning back to the stairs. He unlocks his door, drops his keys on the table, and leans against the closed door for a moment. He sighs, and then drags himself off to bed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

His phone ringing loudly in his ear jars him from sleep. He swats at it enough to get the noise to stop and dozes back off. He’s just managed to catch the tail end of his dream when the phone shrieks again. Why did he choose such an obnoxious ringtone?

“Hello?” He mumbles into the phone.

“John, dear, he’s awake!” John pushes himself upright and blinks several times, hoping that will help him make sense of that combination of words.

“John? Are you there?”

“Uh, yes, yes. I’m sorry. Signal was breaking up,” he says, “I didn’t catch that.”

“Mikey’s awake, John!”

John’s stomach drops away with a suddenness that leaves him feeling a bit dizzy. This is it; this is when his lies get exposed.

“You must hurry down, John dear, I’m sure he’s wanting to see you,” Violet Holmes says. She sounds so happy. She and Siger must be delighted, Eleanor will be thrilled, Sherlock…..

John shakes his head sharply. He wants so badly to avoid this, to crawl back under his blankets and pretend that this isn’t happening, but he can’t. He clears his throat roughly.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right down, Mrs. Holmes. As soon as the train will get me there.”

“Oh, nonsense, John. I’ve had Mycroft’s assistant send a car. It should be -” she interrupts herself to murmur quietly at someone nearby, probably covering the phone mouthpiece with her hand - “it should be there in about 45 minutes. And there will be a selection of breakfast pastries and coffee waiting, so just get yourself ready, dear.”

Excellent, now John has even more reason to feel guilty.

“Yes, Mrs. Holmes. I’ll be waiting.”

Precisely 45 minutes later, John is climbing into the backseat of a shiny, black town car. As the driver - the driver! - shuts the door behind him, John spots Philip peeking through his front curtains. John wonders briefly what explanation the neighbors are going to hear for John being taken away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It should take roughly an hour, probably a little more, to travel the distance between John’s flat and St. Barts by car. John hopes desperately for traffic, but the universe has only begun to fuck with him today. The car pulls to a stop at the curb some 45 minutes after picking him up. He takes a few deep, even breaths, trying to steel himself for the unpleasant encounter he’s about to have. The driver eases the door open with a “have a pleasant day, Mr. Watson”, and John is forced to climb out onto the sidewalk.

He walks as slowly as he can through the halls of the hospital. He takes the stairs instead of the lift. But eventually he finds himself entering the ICU. Molly’s standing behind the desk at the nurse’s station, and she squeals in excitement.

“Oh my god, John, I’m so excited for you, I can hardly stand it. You hurry right in, I know everyone’s been waiting for you to get here.” She barely breathes between phrases.

John sort of waves in her direction. He’d been hoping that there would suddenly be a limit on the number of visitors Mycroft could have, but the universe hates him. There’s only so much he can do to drag out the time it takes to cross the ICU to Mycroft’s room, and the time passes all too quickly. He stops just outside the door to stall a little longer and to eavesdrop on the inhabitants. He needs all the help he can get.

“Really, Mikey, just let Mummy fuss. She’s going to anyway,” Eleanor is saying.

“But I don’t require ‘fussing’. I require peace and quiet and rest; I was in a  _ coma _ , Eleanor.” That rough voice must belong to Mycroft. John’s never actually heard it before.

“Not likely to happen mate, unless you can get the docs to bar them from the hospital,” Greg chuckles.

“Really, Mycroft, it’s not like I’m being unreasonable. I just think proper pyjamas would be more comfortable than that ridiculous thing they’ve dressed you in,” Violet insists. John smiles to himself.

It was nice while it lasted, but it’s time to bring this farce to an end. John straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and walks through the door.

The room goes abruptly silent. All heads are turned in his direction for a brief moment. The older Holmeses, Eleanor, and Greg all look pleased to see him. Mycroft looks completely blank, as he should. They made eye contact for the first time as Mycroft was passing out; Mycroft should have no idea who he is. After a split second that feels like much longer, everyone turns to look at Mycroft, who continues to stare blankly at the stranger in his room.

“Mikey,” Violet says with a brief, awkward laugh, “don’t you have anything to say to John?”

“Who the hell is John?”

All hell breaks loose in the room.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When the general clamor dims to a dull roar, Mycroft’s doctor is called. He’s an older looking gentleman who exudes an air of competence which seems to calm the various members of the Holmes family. It doesn’t do much for John, but John knows it doesn’t matter what the doctor says.

“It’s entirely possible to have some form of amnesia after a blow to the head. It sometimes even targets specific events or areas of memory; we unfortunately don’t understand enough about how the brain works to explain why that may be. But I wouldn’t be too worried about it just yet. If there’s still some memory loss after several more days, we can reconsider treatment options.”

The doctor leaves on that note, leaving a room full of awkwardness. Greg is glaring at John, John is trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, Mrs. Holmes is crying, and Eleanor looks like she wants to punch someone or something. It’s, of course, the perfect time for Sherlock to finally arrive.

“What’s going on?” He asks, eyes darting all over the room as if the wrinkles in someone’s shirt will provide the answer.

“That’s a damn good question,” Mycroft replies. “I simply asked who this man is, and everyone lost all semblance of control. The doctor thinks I have amnesia, but I still don’t have an answer to my original question.” He glares at the entire room impartially.

“John,” Sherlock says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly dull child, “is your fiance.”

Mycroft’s eyes cut across to John sharply. “My fiance,” he repeats, disbelievingly. 

“The one you have been attempting to keep secret from Mummy,” Sherlock confirms which reminds Mrs. Holmes of her indignation.

“What on god’s green earth possessed you to keep a delightful young man like John from us, Mycroft Holmes?” She swats him two or three times.

“Mother, please.” Mycroft tries to dodge her, but he is still confined to a hospital bed; he’s not successful. “I’m sure I had a perfectly good reason for keeping John a secret.” He turns his attention back to John. “Why was I keeping you a secret?”

“I have no idea,” John answers, honestly. “I wasn’t aware I was a secret.”

Greg coughs into his fist from his corner of the room. It sounds vaguely like “liar” to John.

“As the doctor said,” Mycroft intones, clearly attempting his mother’s imperious voice, “this should pass after a few days. I’m sure all will be clear shortly.”

A nurse - not Molly, thank god - bustles in and herds everyone out into the hall. Eleanor leans in towards John. “They’re moving Mikey to another room this afternoon. You should come for lunch with us while we wait.”

No, oh no, that is not a good idea. “I, I can’t,” John says insistently. “I have a couple of things I really must take care of this afternoon, but I’ll, uh, I’ll check back in with him later,” he trails off, aware he’s just digging himself in deeper.

Eleanor looks disappointed, but doesn’t push. She nudges her parents towards the lifts and grabs at Sherlock’s wrist when he doesn’t immediately follow. He glances back over his shoulder at John once before turning his attention to Eleanor’s chatter. Greg mouths “TELL THEM” before he steps into the lift with them.

John takes the opportunity to flee. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Holmeses return from lunch to find Mycroft in a single room on a quieter floor.

“I can’t believe he’s abusing his position like this,” Eleanor mutters under her breath.

“Can’t you?” Sherlock drawls back. Eleanor giggles, desisting when Mummy glances back at them.

“Sherlock, Eleanor, something to share with the rest of us?”

“No, Mummy,” they chorus back.

She returns to her argument with Mycroft. He insists that he needs peace and quiet to rest; she insists that someone stay with him, ‘just in case’. Since she can’t actually identify a likely scenario which would require the presence of a family member, Mycroft ‘wins’. Mummy collects her coat, handbag, and Father with a distinct air of irritation. Eleanor trails after them, and Sherlock intends to be right behind her.

“Sherlock, could you wait just a moment? I need a word.” How Mycroft can sound so superior when in semi-public in his pyjamas, Sherlock may never know. He turns on a heel, just inside the door, tapping a toe impatiently.

“What can you tell me about John?” 

Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that Mycroft is asking this question; really, he shouldn’t. The fact that he is, well, that’s both an insult to his deductive skills and evidence of how distracting his family can be.

“John Watson, thirty years of age, employed by  _ Pages _ , an independent bookshop owned and operated by a Dr. Michael Stamford, previously of St. Bart’s Hospital and a childhood friend. Born in Chelmsford, Essex; orphaned at sixteen as a consequence of a tragic car accident. Older sister, Harriet, went to university in Glasgow and stayed. Enrolled at King’s College, London, to study medicine; completed two years before being deployed to Afghanistan. He returned to London eighteen months ago after being wounded on a patrol. He prefers honey over sugar in his tea, would rather have curry than pizza, listens to a bizarre collection of music, would still like to finish his medical training, and has a very sarcastic sense of humor.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows are nearly at his hairline when Sherlock pauses for breath.

“Is that all?”

“Of course not, my people were very thorough. That is simply a basic summary of important details.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replies, unsuccessfully masking a smirk. “Did any of your research identify anything about his relationship to me?”

Sherlock filters through his data on John quickly. “Other than working in a shop across the street from your residence, no. Why?”

Glancing aside, out the window, Mycroft says quietly, “I find it a bit odd that I don’t remember him at all. It isn’t that I’m missing the entire gap of time in which he appears; the only time I am obviously missing is immediately before the accident. If I do indeed have some form of amnesia, it seems to have selectively eliminated only John Watson.”

Silence reigns over the room.

“He’s too good for you,” Sherlock blurts out.. He startles both of them. Mycroft’s eyes widen just briefly - for him, an expression of total astonishment - before his face settles back into its standard neutral condescension. Sherlock could leave it there, but…. he’s never been one to withhold his opinion from his older brother.

“John actually likes helping people. He was studying medicine because he wants to help people rather than for the status or income. He joined the army to ‘help make people safe’. He’s incredibly polite to the shop customers, even when he’s tired and they are obnoxious, and trust me, I sent some horrid specimens into that shop. Rather than embarrassing the people I had following him, he led them on a merry chase around London for his own entertainment instead.” Sherlock clears his throat before continuing, much more quietly with his eyes on the window. “He listened to me, Mycroft. Actually listened to me, without making jokes at my expense. He was  _ impressed _ with my deductions.”

A loaded moment stretches between them. The mere suggestion that someone might be impressed with their skills rather than offended, envious, or hostile is hard to process.

“I don’t know how or when John Watson came into your life, Mycroft. I could find out, if you’re that concerned, but I think maybe, this one time, you might just want to accept something good without analyzing it to death. You could do a lot worse than John, Mycroft, but I’m not sure you could do any better.”

“One might almost think you fancy the man yourself, little brother. I’ve never heard you be that complimentary about anyone. Anything you’d like to share?”

Sherlock turns his gaze back to Mycroft, disdain practically dripping from his reply.

“You know I don’t bother with human entanglements, elder brother.”

He turns abruptly, with a dramatic flare of coat, and stalks from the room.


	7. Engagement marks the end of a whirlwind romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft knows he wasn't engaged to this John Watson person before the accident. So what is he going to do about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were waiting for this chapter....blessings upon you for your patience. Turns out long-term unemployment can be detrimental to your creative energy. I pushed through for this chapter, but it was a struggle! (And if you don't think this chapter sucks, send me some positive energies so that I can post the next chapter with a note about a new job - I can use all the help I can get!)
> 
> As always, thank you to my dearest CeruleanDarkangelis for making sure I'm not saying anything stupid and for making lovely comments on my drafts. Love you bunches!
> 
> Finally, this chapter's title is "Author Unknown" according to every website I checked, but if you happen to have a source for it, I would love to hear about it.

 

There is a slightly warped spot of flooring directly in front of the door to Mycroft’s hospital room. He appreciates the advance notice the creaking floor provides, as it gives him a second or two more to look appropriate for visitors. It wouldn’t do to be caught with his mouth full of the biscuits Detective Lestrade dropped off last night.

The floor creaks a couple of times before the knock comes, confirming Mycroft’s suspicions about the identify of this visitor. He clears his throat a bit so he can declare - in his most pompous tone - “come in.”

The door cracks open slowly to reveal John Watson on the other side. He smiles cautiously at Mycroft as he steps through the doorway. “Hi, Mycroft. Can we, um, can I talk to you?”

“You appear to have the ability, yes. You also have my permission.” Mycroft lets just the tiniest twitch of his lips appear. John doesn’t visibly react. That’s disappointing.

John shuts the door behind him and takes a seat in one of the chairs at Mycroft’s right. He shifts and fidgets for 163 seconds. Eventually, he takes a deep breath and begins speaking.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why everyone thinks we’re engaged.”

“I have been a bit curious, yes, since I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”

John winces slightly. “Well, you’d only seen me once - right before you lapsed into unconsciousness.” His cheeks color lightly as he goes on, “I just wanted to know if you were going to be okay. The doctors won’t tell a stranger that information, so I let Mol-the nurse believe I was your fiance.”

He stands up to pace back and forth alongside the bed. “I never meant your family to get involved, I swear. They just overwhelmed me, and Mol-the, uh, nurse just piped up to tell them who she thought I was, and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to correct her.” He stops at the end of the bed and turns to face Mycroft. He squares his shoulders like he’s preparing for a dressing down. “After that, it just got so awkward that I didn’t know how to bring it up. Your family is… your family is lovely, and I didn’t want to upset them. And then you woke up.”

Mycroft nods shortly. It’s all perfectly plausible. Absolutely ridiculous, yes, but plausible enough. He knows how overbearing his family can be - in their own loud, affectionate way - it takes some practice to not be bowled over like a plastic bottle in breaking surf.

“Thank you, John. I apologize for my family; they can be...a little much.” He’s not really certain he should do this, but Sherlock had been very convincing. John would make a very acceptable husband. He has already been less work than Jim, after all, and the family does like him. “I have a related proposition for you. I think it is in both our best interests to continue with your inadvertent charade. It would beneficial for me to be married for several very practical reasons, and I suspect the same might be true for you. I am aware we do not know each other and that this is very unusual, but I am certain we could make a tolerable go of it.”

“You want to marry me?” John asks, incredulously. “You… want to marry… me?”

Mycroft frowns. “Yes, that is what I said.”

John walks away from the bed to peer out of the window. At what, Mycroft isn’t certain; it’s been dark for a couple of hours. However, John may need time to process; he’s definitely not as clever as Mycroft or Sherlock- or even Jim. It’s only to be expected and something Mycroft should begin to anticipate.

“So you just want to marry me for- for ‘practical reasons’,” John says several minutes later. “What kind of practical reasons?”

“I don’t know if anyone’s explained to you what I do, but I occupy a minor position in the British government. It would be convenient for me to have a spouse to handle domestic arrangements for which I am often too busy. It would also be helpful to have a reliable partner for social occasions.” Mycroft hesitates, just for a second. “It may also be nice to have the option of pleasant human companionship during the times I am able to be away from the office.”

John turns away from the window, frowning. “What precisely do you mean by ‘human companionship’?”

“Simply another human being occupying the same space, John. I would never presume to demand anything more…. _i_ _ntimate_ from a stranger. We could certainly discuss the possibility in the future, but at the moment, I would hope for no more than polite conversation during the occasional shared meal.”

“Essentially,” John replies, “you’re looking for a roommate. With legal documents and jewelry, but essentially just a roommate.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but a roommate would probably not offer the perks I am willing to add.”

“Like what,” John says, flatly.

“I would be willing to fund any further education you might wish to pursue. I am aware you were studying medicine previously. You could return to that, if you wish. I believe I could secure you a place at any of the fine institutions here in London.”

John looks incredibly tempted at that.

“In addition, I am able to offer you,” Mycroft pauses dramatically, “my family.”

“What?”

“My family, John, do keep up.”

“Your family is not a _thing_ you can offer someone, Mycroft.”

“Actually, I believe you will find it is. My family seems to like you a great deal. Even better, you seem to like them in return. I have never been able to find a potential partner to which both of those things applied. This is, I admit, another benefit for me as well. You can function as a sort of liaison with my family, connecting with them in a way I rarely can or desire.”

John returns to the chair he abandoned earlier in the conversation, looking across Mycroft to the bare, gray wall. He clears his throat once, twice. His right hand curls into a fist then relaxes slowly, intentionally. A handful of moments later, he turns to face Mycroft directly.

“Let’s discuss some details.”

 

*********************************************

 

“Are you completely daft?”

Mike stares at him from across the desk in the back office. The forgotten sandwich in his hand is slowly dripping mayonnaise onto next week’s harlequin romance order form.

“No, I’m not daft,” John snaps in reply. “There’s nothing crazy about accepting a proposal.”

“There is when you’ve only known the person for 24 hours.”

“People used to do it all the time,” John waves his hand to brush aside the point. “Mycroft made a very logical argument last night for why we should just make it official instead of telling his family the truth.” He stands to pace back and forth in front of Mike’s desk.

“It’s very decent of him, you know; he could be a real dick about the whole thing. He’s offered to pay for the rest of my medical training, Mike. I might not be able to be a surgeon anymore” - the fingers of his right hand twitch almost involuntarily - “but I can still do something.”

His short cycle of the room comes to an abrupt stop. He’s facing more of the jumbled mess that is the filing system than Mike when he continues.

“Mike, I am so tired of going home to an empty flat with weird neighbors. And you know I’ve really appreciated this job, but.” He clears his throat once, then again. “But it’s not what I’ve always wanted to do.”

His eyes dart across the wall, bouncing from point to point. He jerks as if to continue pacing but changes his mind. He opens and closes his mouth a handful of times, clears his throat again, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Most of the mayonnaise has deserted Mike’s sandwich when John finally speaks again.

“It’s been a really long time since I had a family, and” -- sharp exhale -- “And Mycroft is willing to give me his. I know I don’t know him very well, but he seems civil, at least. The pros outweigh the cons, Mike.”

Mike drops his slightly mangled sandwich onto the takeaway wrapping paper. He brushes crumbs from his fingers and sighs.

“Fine, John. It’s your life, mate, just. Don’t rush into anything, okay? Just because you’ve decided to be honestly engaged doesn’t mean you have to get married tomorrow. Take some time to get to know him before you involve legal paperwork.”

John drops back into the empty visitor’s chair.

“We’re not getting married tomorrow. We’re getting married on Friday.”

 

******************

 

“YOU DID WHAT.” Eleanor doesn’t quite yell. It’s also not a question.

“I had a conversation with John last night, and we decided that my lack of memory of our previous arrangement does not mean that it cannot continue. In fact, we have decided to accelerate our original timeline.”

“So you’ve been out of a coma for some 48 hours, and you think this is a good time to make major life decisions?”

“I have been thoroughly tested in that time period; there is nothing demonstrably wrong that would suggest I am incapable of making a decision of this nature.”

Eleanor sighs and slouches in her seat. Mycroft frowns at her until she straightens up.

“Have you told Mummy?”

“Heavens, no, not yet. She and Father will be by tomorrow. We will discuss it at that time.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“It was his idea, Eleanor.”

“His idea?!? And you listened to him? Even though I _know_ you suspect he has feelings for John.”

“Sherlock is a grown man, Eleanor --”

“Convenient that you choose to remember that **now**.”

“-- and, if he didn't want me to proceed with this arrangement, he had the opportunity to make his opinion known. I cannot be held responsible for his choice not to do so.”

“You're an ass, Myc, you know that?”

“I believe you have mentioned that on a number of prior occasions.”

The room falls mostly silent. Eleanor taps a shoe against the tile floor in a suspiciously peppy rhythm; she’s been listening to popular music again, despite all Mycroft’s efforts.

“When are you getting married?”

“Friday.”

“FRIDAY?” Eleanor’s shout echoes painfully in the small, mostly empty room.

“We did not see a point in delaying any longer than that.”

“That’s very soon, Myc.”

“I am aware of that,” he snaps back at her. He closes his eyes and counts to five. When he begins again, he sounds much calmer. “I asked you to visit this afternoon because John and I would like you to assist with the arrangements. Would you be willing to help us?”

Eleanor’s eyes are sad. “Of course, I’ll help you, Myc, if you’re sure this is what you want.”

“I am, Eleanor.”

“And Sherlock --”

“Sherlock will be fine.”

 

*********************************************

 

_“You know I don't bother with human entanglements.” What a load of shit._

“Shut up.”

_You bother with all kinds of human entanglements. Your parents, Eleanor, Mrs. Hudson, hell, even Mycroft if you're going to be truly honest._

“I'm not. Shut up.”

_Mycroft was right, though, admit it. You do fancy John. Quite a lot._

“I'll admit no such thing.”

_Christmas is going to be exponentially more awkward, you know._

“That's not even possible. Nothing could be more awkward than last Christmas.”

_It will be, though. Can't you just picture it? Mycroft’s not one for public displays, but they'll be sitting across the table from you, laughing at jokes only they understand, having partial conversations. Mycroft will be smiling more, just a natural consequence of more readily available sex, not that you’d know. He’ll do something subtle, mostly innocent for all that it's below the table so no one sees. John will blush, and you'll be trapped at that table thinking about all the ways you could --_

“ **STOP.** For the love of Paul Uhlenhuth, stop.”

_You can't ignore this. If you don't say anything, he'll marry Mycroft. He'll want you to socialize with them; only seeing the family at Christmas will be right out. He'll pop round for tea and ambush you from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen._

“I can't say anything now. I told Mycroft to marry him. Twice.”

_You don't have much time to debate this issue. Have one awkward conversation or thousands, which is it going to be, Sherlock?_

“I DON'T KNOW!!”

“Sherlock, dear, who are you shouting at?” The tea service clinks lightly as Mrs. Hudson sets the tray on the clean-ish part of the table.

“Just myself, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock sighs. Drinking the tea will, irrationally, get rid of her faster. And he might be a bit peckish.

Mrs. Hudson hands him a perfectly prepared cup of tea. She’s broken out her Sunday china; this is a visit with a purpose then. She settles into the empty armchair across from Sherlock with her own cup. They both sip quietly for a couple of minutes, just long enough for Sherlock to let his guard down a miniscule amount.

“So when is that delightful John coming around again?”

“Now that Mycroft’s out of his coma, I couldn’t begin to predict.”

“Such a shame, that.”

“Mycroft’s coma? I disagree.”

“No, silly.” Mrs. Hudson sets her cup on the side table and looks very seriously at Sherlock. “It’s a shame that you think he’s marrying Mycroft.”

“I don’t ‘think’ that, Mrs. Hudson. I ‘know’ that. Mycroft just informed me they’ll be married on Friday.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I know you think I’m an old lady with no thought for anything but silly celebrity gossip, but I do have eyes. And ears. I see that brother of yours at least once a month, which is far more than you do. He’s cagey, but he lets things slip every now and again. Your brother has a young man, I’m certain of that, but he’s not nearly as lovely as that John. He sounds like a right bastard, if you’ll pardon the language.”

Sherlock chokes a bit on his cranberry scone.

“John did not seem like the kind of person who insists that Mycroft replace all the upholstery because it ‘clashes with his wardrobe’ or who breaks up with Mycroft at least once a month and then conveniently forgets that fact when he runs out of money.”

“Mycroft told you all of that?”

“Of course he didn’t tell me all of that; he regularly overestimates how poor my hearing is. The things that man will talk about on the phone with someone else in earshot, it’s a wonder the whole government hasn’t come crashing down around our heads.”

Sherlock puts his scone down on the small table next to him (which miraculously reappears next to his chair every time he moves it away) so that he can bury his face in his hands and giggle helplessly at the image Mrs. Hudson has conjured up. Mrs. Hudson waits surprisingly patiently for him to stop before she continues.

“Now, young man, I don’t claim to know why your brother would suddenly want to marry John instead of the one he’s already got. And I can’t imagine why John would agree.”

“Really,” Sherlock interjects bitterly, “can’t imagine any reasons at all?”

“Not a single one. You see, I haven’t seen John with Mycroft, dear, but I have seen him with you. I think we all know that he’d be marrying the wrong Holmes.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, you numpty, we do. So what are you going to do about it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're wondering, Paul Uhlenhuth is the scientist who developed a test to identify human blood (species precipitin test) in 1901. He also did a number of other notable things, but that's the one that I thought Sherlock would appreciate.


	8. When You Realize You Want to Spend the Rest of Your Life with Somebody, You Want the Rest of Your Life to Start As Soon As Possible.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a wedding happening, but is anyone going to say "I do"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this is it! If you've been with me from the beginning, thank you SO SO MUCH. And if you haven't and are stumbling on this complete-thanks to you as well! And everyone who falls in between - I can't tell you how awesome the comments, kudos, and bookmarks have been over the past few months. Even the anonymous hits have stunned me; I can't believe so many of you want to see this thing that's been floating around in my head!
> 
> Thanks as always to CeruleanDarkangelis for reading over my stuff and trying to keep me from sounding stupid, and for instigating this in the first place!
> 
> Chunks of dialogue in this chapter were taken directly from the film While You Were Sleeping, so if it sounds familiar, that would be why!
> 
> And, lastly, the title of this chapter is from my very favorite romantic comedy, When Harry Met Sally. If you've enjoyed this and you've never seen that film, go right now and obtain a copy. You won't regret it.

Eleanor is a genius. In 48 hours, she managed to convince the minister to allow them to hold the wedding in the church of St Bartholomew-the-Less, on the hospital grounds, since Mycroft hadn’t officially been released yet. She pulled flowers and decorations from heaven-only-knows-where and managed to find John the most stunning suit he’d ever seen. How it fit him so well was a question she refused to answer. The best surprise of all was her choice of officiant.

“Mike Stamford? My boss Mike Stamford?”

“Yes! I was so pleased to see him on the list, John, I couldn’t pass it up. Did you know he performed weddings?”

“He’s never mentioned it to me. He said yes?”

“Once I persuaded him, yes. I think he was concerned about a conflict of interest or something ridiculous like that, but I talked him round.”

Since Mike will be officiating instead of just attending, John decides to invite Molly instead. She’s been friendly enough the last couple weeks, and she might as well see the results of her accidental matchmaking.

 

******************************

 

“Sherlock!” John’s voice cuts across the bustle and noise of Baker Street just as Sherlock steps out onto the stoop. He’s hurrying up the street from the direction of the Tube station.

“John. Shouldn’t you be elbow deep in wedding plans?” Sherlock tries to keep his disappointment and bitterness out of his voice. He can be polite. Civil, even.

John brushes off his question like an irritating insect. “Eleanor is handling everything. All I have to do is put on the suit she picked out and show up.” He looks down at the pavement. “But, uh, I have a question.”

“Certainly. But I have an appointment with Scotland Yard; I cannot delay long.” John doesn’t need to know that Lestrade would be astonished for him to turn up on time.

“Oh, oh, sure.” John clears his throat a few times before squaring his shoulders and looking Sherlock full in the face. “Sherlock, can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t marry your brother tomorrow?”

_This is it. This is the moment Mrs. Hudson was pushing you towards. What are you going to do?_

The silence stretches out - three seconds, eight seconds, fifteen seconds, twenty-two seconds.

“No.” Sure and confident - just the way you should speak when you want to convince someone of a lie.

John’s bright, hopeful eyes begin to dim. Something about his face almost quivers before it smooths into a polite, blank, neutral expression. He nods - once, short and choppy - and turns back towards the corner.

“John?” Sherlock reaches out to grasp his shoulder, just enough to stop him walking away.

“Yes,” John scrapes out, without looking back.

“Mycroft will be lucky to have you.”

John pulls away without responding and marches briskly away.

 

******************************

 

Friday morning dawns clear and dry. The winter sun peeks weakly over London. In the outskirts, John Watson is wide awake to greet the dawn. He hasn’t slept; every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the calm, serene expression on Sherlock’s face as he crushed the last hope John had for a future that he truly wanted. It was just easier to stay awake. He’d used the time wisely, at least. Everything he cared about in his sad little flat had been packed up and stacked neatly by the front door. It wasn’t much, and collecting it all together was simply a reminder of why he was getting married today to a man he didn’t love.

 

In a flat on Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes is also awake. His appointment with Lestrade after his run-in with John had gone poorly. The crime was no closer to solved, but Sherlock just couldn’t focus. In the wee hours, Lestrade had sent him home to rest, claiming they both needed to be prepared for the wedding. He looked just as enthused as Sherlock felt. It hadn’t worked; Sherlock had just brought his distraction home. He’d paced for a while, until Mrs. Hudson shouted at him, and he’d spent the last couple of hours laying on the living room floor, imagining all the ways he should have answered John the day before.

 

In a private room at St. Bart’s hospital, Mycroft Holmes is awake and reading quietly. He is not concerned about his day; he has made a rational, practical choice with plenty of benefits. There’s no purpose to imagining what might be or could have been, so Mycroft turns another page and rings the nurse to bring him some tea.

 

In a luxury suite at the Savoy, a small Irish man - short, slight build, dark coloring - is drinking a latte and skimming a newspaper. He means to turn past the page of wedding announcements, but his eye lands on one dead center of the page, announcing the marriage of one Mycroft Holmes to one John Watson, today, in the Church of St. Bartholomew-the-Less. The residents of the surrounding rooms are woken by the shrieks of rage and the crashes of broken pottery. The coffee stains will require much of the room to be refurbished.

 

******************************

 

According to Violet Holmes, it is unseemly to have a wedding before noon on a weekday, but it was the only time the church would be available. Ten o’clock is both too early and not early enough. The Holmes family is waiting, in various states of patience, about the interior of the church at five minutes after.

“Where could he possibly be?” Violet demands of her husband.

“Maybe traffic is bad?” Siger replies, patiently. “It isn’t like he has forgotten his own wedding.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes at Greg and Molly and moves off to “check” the decorations - again.

Mycroft and Sherlock are waiting near the altar. Sherlock is pacing; Mycroft is standing so still it looks like he’s being sketched in a life model art class.

“You _do_ have the rings, Sherlock, do you not,” Mycroft drawls.

“Yes, I have the bloody rings,” Sherlock nearly shouts. “You-” he turns to point at Mycroft “-are insufferable.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at Eleanor, who glares back at him.

Moments later, Mike Stamford and John slip in through a side door, apologizing profusely for an unexpected traffic snarl. None of the Holmes’ call them on the obvious lie. Only Greg seems to notice that John and Sherlock won’t look at each other.

The attendees are a small number. The Holmes family, Greg, and Molly are the only witnesses. This church has seen happier funeral services.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mike asks, with an attempt at a cheery grin. Only Siger returns it. Mike begins with a very traditional “we are gathered here today”, but he doesn’t get much farther.

The church door slams open with a thunderous crash.

“MYCROFT HOLMES!”

The voice is surprisingly loud for how shrill it is. Mike cuts off abruptly in the middle of his next word.

“Who the hell are you?” Violet inquires imperiously.

“James Moriarty, Mycroft’s fiancè.”

“What?!”

“That is patently false, James, and you know it.” Mycroft’s voice drips boredom and disdain.

“May I remind you that _you_ proposed to _ME_?”

“You said no, James. We broke up.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You left the country!”

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to run out and marry the first bimbo that you came across!!”

“Hey!” John snaps.

“John is not a bimbo!” Eleanor shouts.

“James, we have had this conversation for the last time. We are through. Our relationship is over.”

“Fine then, go ahead and marry him! But I hope you know you haven’t heard the last of me!” He spins on his heel and stomps out of the church, knocking over decorations as he goes.

“Do we want to continue?” Mike questions, eyes darting between both grooms.

“Yes,” Mycroft insists.

“No,” John murmurs simultaneously.

“What?” asks everyone besides Sherlock - and Greg, who hides his face in his hands and shakes his head.

“No,” John repeats, a bit louder.

“Whyever not?”

John sighs and turns to face Violet. “I’m falling in love with your son.”

“Yes, dear,” she says slowly, as if to a child, “that’s why we are here.”

“No, not that one,” John mumbles. “The other one.” His voice drops off into a whisper by the end of his sentence.

“Sherlock, what did you do?!”

“Mummy-”

“No, no, he didn’t do anything,” John lets out an awkward, uncomfortable laugh. “The day we all met, there was, um, a little ‘mix up’, you could call it. I was walking up and saw Mycroft falling into the street. I may have stopped him being run over by a van, but when I got to the hospital, no one would tell me if he was okay. And uh, someone-” Molly blushes and tries to hide behind Greg “- misunderstood a comment I made and thought I was his fiance. Then you all came rushing in, and everyone was so excited, and I never could find the right moment to tell you that it, um, it wasn’t true.”

The church echoes with the stunned silence of at least three people.

“Why didn’t you say something,” Sherlock whispers from behind Mycroft.

“I didn’t know what to say,” John chokes out, glancing at him briefly. He turns back to the rest of the family. “The longer I waited, the harder it got to even think about because I had missed being part of a family so much. I’d forgotten what it was like to have people care about you. And when Mycroft suggested that we get married regardless, all I could think about was having that again. I’m a little ashamed at what I was willing to do, but I don’t think I can do it after all.”

Most of the onlookers are now crying, from Eleanor’s near sobs to Violet’s discreet sniffs.

“And Sherlock, Sherlock didn’t do anything wrong. He was just- just himself.” John turns to face Mycroft. “I know it’s a wonderful arrangement with all those benefits you mentioned, but I can’t marry you - I can’t do that to myself.” He finally looks directly at Sherlock and whispers “I’m sorry” before running out the door.

The door hasn’t even closed when Greg shoves Sherlock towards it. “Well, go after him, you bastard. You know you want to.”

Sherlock stumbles a few steps in that direction before he catches his balance again. He’s surprised at how not surprised most of the group looks.

“Go!” Violet shoos him away.

He goes.

 

******************************

 

“John!” he shouts as he exits onto the street. He twists and turns, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of John in the mid-morning crowd. A stray bit of sunlight reflects off a blond head several feet away, behind a crowd of tourists. “John!!”

John is trying to ignore him, but Sherlock’s legs are longer and he is less concerned about knocking into people. He catches up to John a few steps later, just before the bus stop in front of the hospital. Grabbing at his arm, he manages to pull him to a stop.

“John, wait, goddammit.”

“Sherlock, don’t you think I’ve been embarrassed enough for one day? Can I just go home please?” John jerks out of his grasp.

“John, this bus isn’t due for another several minutes, so you can at least listen to me while you wait.”

“Fine, what do you want.”

“You, to skip right to the point. I should have said so last night when you asked, just…. People don’t like me, John. I’m too much work, I’m unreliable, I’ll probably put my work ahead of you all the time. Mycroft is much more stable. He’s got much more money, better connections; he can definitely get you back into university. He’s also far less likely to drag you around to shady areas of the city at all hours of the night or get arrested on a regular basis.”

John’s laugh seems to surprise him; it certainly surprises Sherlock.

“It never occurred to you that I might prefer shady areas of the city to boring government dinner parties? Or getting arrested to ‘dealing with the staff’?”

Sherlock snaps his mouth closed abruptly and shakes his head.

A slow, promising grin spreads across John’s face, lighting him up like Harrod’s at Christmas. An ambulance leaving the station across the street drowns out his initial attempt to continue.

“Well, I would. Prefer that, that is.”

Sherlock can’t contain his own smile now. “John, I don’t suppose you were planning to move somewhere today.”

John squints in confusion. “Well, I was, but I think that might be out of the question at this point.”

“If you’re interested, I happen to know of an open room in a flat in Baker Street. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, might be willing to make an exception for the short notice. If you’re amenable, that is.”

John breaks out in a full-fledged beam. “I’ve visited that place, I think. It’s lovely. Not sure about the flatmate, though. Would he mind me dropping into his life out of nowhere?”

Sherlock reaches out and takes him by the hand, lacing their fingers together and pulling John closer. “Not one bit, John, not one bit.”

  
  


They get a framed photo of their first kiss from Mycroft for Christmas. Those CCTV cameras come in handy in the strangest of ways.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know that I'll be adding anything else to the Sherlock fandom at this point, but I'm grateful for all of the loveliness I've encountered from all of you. While I don't know that I'll be writing anything else, I will be drifting around screaming at #setlock and waiting impatiently for series 4. 
> 
> I can always be reached at leyley09 on tumblr and on twitter!


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